


Yes John, I am an idiot

by LaughingSpock



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: POV First Person, POV Sherlock Holmes, Reichenbach Feels, Self confession, a genius one, arghhh I hate this part!, but hey we all know Sherlock is an idiot, just a writing exercise ok?, not sure about title, self therapy?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-11
Updated: 2014-06-11
Packaged: 2018-02-04 07:14:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1770313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LaughingSpock/pseuds/LaughingSpock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>And then there is that distinct tone of blue. It often pretends to be brown whenever it lacks the light, but it actually consists of lots of deep blue and a tiny bit of grey. The color of the Adriatic Sea on a rainy day or the sky in a clear night. How ordinary… Yet, it’s not easy to encounter with. Yeah, I tried to find it. I’ve looked into hundreds of eyes, dead and alive.</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>  <em>The man I have been following for days goes into a restaurant to meet someone. I see the waitress putting a sandwich or a toast on a table and only then I realise I eat nothing for ages. Then I hear the nagging tone of a familiar voice and John —</em></p><p> </p><p>  <em>-- I even crave that tone!</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	Yes John, I am an idiot

**Author's Note:**

> Not betad and can have some grammatical errors. But I'd really like to see your comments anyway.

John.

John… John… John… John.

JOHN!

This silence is ruining me. Rotting me, rotting my mind. It drags my mind to some uncanny places it should never be.

John. John…

I whisper your name into the emptiness, again and again. It’s not even conscious. Sometimes I startle with a noise in my empty hotel room and realise that it’s me calling your name. It is no wonder how independent my mouth has become since so has my mind. Yeah, as shameful it is, I guess it is true. I’ve finally lost control over my mind.

John…

I can not stop saying your name. Sometimes it sounds like a simple call, sometimes like a demand or even a command. A question, a mantra, an ache… It doesn’t matter how I vocalize it though, it always come back with no response. It bounces off on dirty walls, low ceilings. But it never returns alone. Not just itself. Not with its simple, monosyllabic, humble state. Not just the most common male name in England. It’s not faceless or expressionless. It doesn’t serve to just fill in the real thing, not anymore. Not a bundle of voice. Not just a word.

Your name returns with a loud silence. It comes back with countless irritating unanswered questions. It feels as if it gets bigger with each bounce. Gets huge like an ocean wave covering me ruthlessly. It drowns me, leaves me breathless. That single syllable, it makes me powerless. As if my hands and feet tied up tightly and it doesn’t matter how hard I try. Even my cleverest plan or my slyest trick is not enough to free me. I feel— I feel trapped.

It’s not only in my room. No. If it were, I’d have seen it as a trick, a delusion that feeds from a claustrophobic part of my brain. But no, it happens anywhere. Parks, big crowded squares, lighted streets, woods, in the middle of the Atlantic. It’s same on back alleys of Paris, the bank of the Nile or Spanish steps. Whenever your name crosses my mind, I feel like I’m trapped. Everything I should be doing at that time gets blur. It’s impossible to focus on the person sitting next table whom I should be observing or to stay in role as an American art smuggler to reach a man on my list. I quit the act and turn into a strange version of myself, a Sherlock I’ve never seen before. A panicked, careless, trembling, dishevelled version. Someone who can’t keep his mind clear, someone weak. Ex- addict!

John!

How wrong I was! Now, as I stare at the blank wall in this damned hotel room on another side of this dull planet and wishing- no, praying- for a dream come true, I can see, finally finally I can see how wrong I’ve been all this time. How-- how stupid I have been! Unable to see the truth, not understanding what this thing--

\- things between us.

How blind I was. Yet it was my intellect, the single thing I used to be proud of. I’ve always so wary, a few steps ahead of other people. You said it yourself ; “You’re a genius”. Yes, I am. Still, I couldn’t see it.

There is always something! Always.

It was usually something small. But not now. This time, it’s not some minor detail I can put on a shell in my mind. No, it’s a much bigger realization. And look how sly it went on in my mind palace! I can smell it on each room. There are traces all over the walls, on halls, on steps, everywhere. Mind palace, my mind palace is invaded! You always think that I am dramatic. Okay, how do you explain this then? Hm? The effect an ordinary monosyllabic name has on me?

I finally got it and I will tell you what this thing between us is. Well, when I say ‘tell you’… I mean figuratively. It’s no more than some sort of therapy, you see. Yes, I remember teasing you about your therapist John, but not about that. I’ve always agreed that writing can be a good way to eliminate the stress, though I don’t have to share these writings with the world on the internet, right? Or anyone on that matter. And you already know I can’t keep in touch with you, well when I say ‘you know’…

Anyway. What was I saying? Yeah, things between us.

There are some things surely caused by my forced exile. The ones feel equally irritating no matter how necessary or solid they are. Stone walls, for instance. Numerous buildings made by steel and concrete, doors within them, endless streets, gardens, schools, woods, snowy mountains, lakes, oceans sometimes, play grounds filled whit child cries, houses, thousands of foreign sitting rooms…

Roads for miles and some bodies, living or dead, on those roads or in their houses or wherever they are, that stand as some kind of barrier by flesh and bones between us, separating us with their sheer being. Lots of dull, annoying, tangible stuff. There are dozens of cities, some countries, some borderlines. And plenty of other things their names don’t matter as much as their being there.

It is no avail knowing that the shortest way between two points is a straight line, I can not knock down those barriers like chess pieces with the touch of my finger. If I were a mythological creature I’d blow all along that shortest line and sweep everything on my way. Or I’d fly to you flapping my wings through the window of my messy room. No, I’m not playing poet. Those are the things crossing my mind.

However that’s not all of them. Unfortunately there are many other things between us. If it were just those roads, those walls or those country borders separated us I’d clear all of them, if it were just them.

If had not been the others.

If you hadn’t stood on the grey of the ground like a black fixed point. If had not been the cry filled my ears.

 

“Sherlock!”

 

If your voice had not quivered when you were digging out the crowd, reaching out for me. If you had not said ‘friend’ as a last attempt, a magical word opening the doors. If your fingers had not wrapped around my wrist with a dying hope; if I had not almost given up my perfectly planned game at that instant; fighting with myself, cursing myself for not being cleverer, not considering all the crucial effects of that plan. If I had been able to come up with a better idea. A plan which didn’t contain you, your choked sobs or your small fingers searching a trace of life on my body.

But that’s not all of it.

There are different masks I put on my face each morning. A suitcase that I have been carrying from country to country; in that suitcase, several Sherlocks none of them Sherlock at all. Sherlocks who wake up in different but always gloomy hotel rooms everyday. Sherlocks who breathe the air of foreign cities, buy information speaking other languages, pursuit another piece of the spider web each day. A Sherlock who puts a tally mark on an invisible list when each piece loses it’s life. A Sherlock a bit not good. A Sherlock you have never known.

Is it enough to push you? I’m not sure. You are a soldier. You had been in a brutal war for years. But John, there are other things too. Details. Hundreds of them. Each one reminds me of a moment, a memory.

A low pitched giggle, tea smell on a cozy afternoon, tousled sandy brown hair after a long sleepless night, an uptight posture, the sound of a very slow typing… A short man wearing a black jacket turns the corner a few feet away. You have any idea how many times I forgot about my actual business and followed that man?

Then those hideous woolen jumpers. When I see a similar in a showcase I lose all sense of focus. The jumpers I buy on a whim and collect in my room though each time I know that I can not keep them with me travelling to my next stop.

I often come across someone crippled. Their limping legs remind me of a sweet chase in London streets. A cane makes me wonder if an old limp would repeat itself.

There is a familiar soft voice for instance. Whenever I hear that voice I frantically try to find its source. It could not be the same voice in Tokyo, Istanbul or in Arabian desert, it’s nearly impossible, yet knowing that doesn’t stop me from turning my head each time. Every time I figure that it’s not the one I look for I want run away.

Can you now comprehend how much there is between us?

I am standing there tracking someone, catching tiny details which can get me closer to the inner circles of this crime web, looking for the cleanest way to get rid of another piece of it, talking to another stranger in disguise with my fake accent or doing God knows what crucial business. Then something happens; a scent, a sound, a texture, a movement on my peripheral vision and time-place changes in an instant; another scene unfolds itself before my eyes. I find myself lying on a comfortable couch. Typing sound on the background, a spicy smell in the air from the take-away we’ve just eaten, scenes from the last crime scene flashing in my mind and that lazy contentment due to being home and safe. Soon I’ll get my violin to play something from Bach. I was thinking about Wagner actually but today is Friday and it’s his day. Besides we came home after a successful but tiring case and he is exhausted. I think he deserves this gesture. In a minute I will walk to the window with my instrument and his typing will cease abruptly. Sarabande in D minor and maybe after that Partita no.1. While I pull the last note I will slowly turn to the room, to my single audience and there, the same soft smile filled with admiration greeting me.

It’s unacceptable, unbearable! These daydreams are not only annoying but also very dangerous. I have a crucial mission that will not tolerate a single mistake. I don’t have the luxury to be wrapped up in fantasies. I should not!

But there are words ruin my day. A teenager on the next table says “Brilliant!” and I wish to shoot on the walls; it’s written “extra ordinary” in the book I pretend to read and I lost all train of thought.

Worse than all is the backseats of the cabs. It became a habit sitting in the middle to ignore the emptiness on the other side. I realized that I used to watch the reflection of a friend on the glass. Now I try to watch outside but sometimes my eyes catch a glimpse of a weary stranger and the dead expression on his face makes my head turn away. Well, it’s never been my favourite, self deduction.

And then there is that distinct tone of blue. It often pretends to be brown whenever it lacks the light, but it actually consists of lots of deep blue and a tiny bit of grey. The color of the Adriatic Sea on a rainy day or the sky in a clear night. How ordinary… Yet, it’s not easy to encounter with. Yeah, I tried to find it. I’ve looked into hundreds of eyes, dead and alive.

The man I have been following for days goes into a restaurant to meet someone. I see the waitress putting a sandwich or a toast on a table and only then I realise I eat nothing for ages. Then I hear the nagging tone of a familiar voice and John —

\-- I even crave that tone!

Sleepless nights are another matter. No, they are not surprising for me. But John, now there are dreams. They envelop me as soon as I close my eyes. Dreams in which I hold a round face between my hands. A face fanning me the breath I seek greedily, a face I map every unique inch of it with the tip of my nose.

In those dreams I lean my head on someone’s lap. Small, calloused fingers travel on my face, in my hair. When I sink into deeper sighing, wool of a worn out jumper tickles my skin. I bury my fingers in the softest hair in another dream. Each strand washes me with the sunlight. Then my eyes meet the clearest night. I drag my lips over a pulse just to be sure, to feel the flowing of life. Lowering my head, I take a deep breath from a lean neck. I know this scent very well, all the contradictory notes of it that come together, still my nose chases it from the shoulder to the soft skin behind the ear. My fingertips get slightly wet touching thin lips back and forth. The warmth they steal from each breath spreads to my very being. And these, all of these feel so real that waking from it gives me almost a physical pain!

Can you see the enormity of the things between us? I said high functioning sociopath, yeah. How could I know though? There was no proof to the contrary for years. It’s not a secret, I do not like people. I usually ignore them; however if they irritate me I throw insults, dig out their weakness, provoke them. It is the easiest way to get rid of their unwanted attention, I perfected it years ago. I am not a decent person John. Neither respectful, moderate or ‘normal’. I am not patient man. Maintaining a social relationship requires lots of effort. You have to be patient, to nod, to approve, to smile constantly, to pretend to be another person. It’s not a good idea to tell people their mistakes or warn them about potential dangers. They call you ‘freak’.

In the pool when Moriarty said he’d burn the heart out of me, I said I did not have one, you remember? It wasn’t a lie. I did not. At least that was people constantly told me. ‘You heartless freak!’, ‘How can you say that Sherlock?’, ‘Don’t you have a heart Sherlock?’, ‘You can not love anyone with that heart Sherlock!’

Then what is that nonsense? If I am heartless, what are these fantasies, hm?

These dreams, this confusion, this mess in my mind palace… Why I feel like I am in the wrong place and doing the wrong things? Why when my body is busy on a far corner of the world, my mind insists to wander on the other corner? Why I constantly crave something unknown to me, try to reach out for it? Why I can not stop but feel that I am wounded an invisible wound and that I’m losing blood each passing minute?

This thing, this so called ‘sentiment’, mankind kill each other for it. God, I am killing for it! How obvious would it be?

That’s way I’m giving up from now on. I made up my mind. No more fighting with myself. I won’t try to stop these images anymore. Since it is no more a matter of preference to think about you, then let it be. I’ll create time for my dreams. I’ll shape each of them consciously, doing everything I can’t do in real life, everything I wish to do. I will dream about you every night John.

Tonight, I’ll go to Baker Street. Opening the door with my old keys, I’ll slip inside quietly. It’ll be late, you will be sleeping. As I climb up the stairs, I’ll avoid the creaky ones. In the light of the street lamp our sitting room will look exactly as I left it. I’ll turn to your bedroom. The door will be ajar.

I will watch your sleeping form for a while. The rises and falls of your chest with each breath will be the evidence of your being alive. But it will not be enough to just watch, not after all these months. I will close the short distance between us and lie next to you on the bed. I will smell your hair, feel your warmth. If you don’t wake up in spite of all these, I will sleep with you a comfortable sleep after a long while.

After this point the scenario changes for each dream. Sometimes you wake up shocked and angry, sometimes doubtful but happy. You get mad in some of them and begin to shout at me. Maybe you will not believe that I’m real; you will tentatively touch my face, my shoulder to be sure. You will flinch then, get furious. Maybe you won’t wait for me to explain and will kick me or punch me in the face. It will not matter for me.

You know what I will do? I will hold you tightly in my arms and won’t let you go anywhere. My fingers will wander in your hair, on your face. I will look into your eyes, whispering your name. Again and again. It will not be unanswered this time. No. _There will be a Sherlock to each John_. Because it’s not anymore a wish to hear my name on your lips, it’s a need. I crave to pick out different sentiments mixed with each tone. Admiration, incredulity, exasperation, understanding, tenderness, humour, kindness, concern, astonishment, affection. More than everything affection.

Then, after hours or days which we pass tangled with each other, when I get calmer and can finally breathe properly, I will tell you my story. Everything John. Not only Moriarty, my fall or my travels to destroy his web. I will tell you everything about myself. Every little detail I’ve never shared with anybody. The things I find important or strange and put into a closet in my mind palace or anything I think you’d want to hear. My whole childhood, the things that I didn’t erased, my summers, mummy, my fights with Mycroft, my experiments, school, the time I get lost in the woods, my dreams, disappointments, fears, things that happened to me. My thoughts about people, crime and chemistry. And I will tell you things that I’ve never admit to anyone before and things that I don’t understand but fear to ask. I will ask you.

After this long monolog my voice will probably get hoarse. But suddenly I will remember my last discovery about us. The thing between us. I will tell you about it. When I get mad at myself for being so slow to see the obvious, you will just smile me and say “Because you are an idiot”. And I will chuckle on your shoulder, breathing you in.

Because it will be the truest thing I’ve ever heard about myself.

**Author's Note:**

> For whom who are interested, here are the links for[ Bach Sarabande](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=V3aloHY7I_g) and [ Partita No.1](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AGEKrEXdtWw).


End file.
